The author returned to his hometown, not to seek inspiration, but to confront a story that had already begun without him. After years of literary success—national awards, movie deals, bestsellers—he had lost his spark. Hoping to reclaim it, he bought an old property: a house that doubled as a bookstore, once owned by a man who had mysteriously vanished.
Rumors had swirled back home. Some said the bookstore owner simply grew tired of the altitude and chill. Others whispered darker things. For the author, it was an irresistible puzzle.
He had a peculiar habit: writing an entire manuscript in one go, dumping every thought, including the author's note, into a single sprawling chapter before slicing it into shape later. He opened a fresh document and started typing.
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UNTITLED MANUSCRIPT – Last saved 30 January 2025
"For my next book," he tweeted, "I'm writing something close to home. Just bought a property whose last owner vanished without a trace. If he's dead, was it his choice? Or did something—or someone—drive him to it?"
It felt strange to include this in his author’s note, but this was how the story truly began. He had known the previous owner: a school junior, once an aspiring writer, who ran the bookstore to keep the lights on while he pursued his manuscript.
Intrigued, the author liquidated his savings to buy the place, hoping to uncover the truth. He believed in reverberations—echoes of past events lingering in spaces. Perhaps this house held answers.
The town had changed, and so had he. An old schoolmate, surprised by his ignorance, told him the missing man had been a rising talent. Despite being two grades apart, their school’s vibrant arts program had birthed many creatives. Perhaps, somewhere amid the clutter, the author would find the lost manuscript.
The house had two levels: the basement, converted into the bookstore, and the upper floor, a private residence. Water damage had left the basement damp and pungent. Locals said the man had kept to himself, ordering supplies to his doorstep, lost in research or scribbling in his notebook. That notebook became the author’s obsession.
The bookstore shelves sagged under the weight of neglected children’s books and aging magazines. Letters piled up, demanding unpaid bills. The family had long given up hope.
Days passed. Helpers cleared debris, but no manuscript or notebook surfaced. Frustrated, the author repurposed the basement into his writing den, intent on conjuring fiction where facts had failed him.
His mind wandered: The dust had settled evenly, yet the household items were neatly arranged, as if still in use. Had the owner lived with someone? A wife? A girlfriend? No photos, no traces. If he invented her for the story, he would need a reason for her absence. Perhaps… she was why the man disappeared.
Excited, he began outlining:
A young couple, high school sweethearts turned literature graduates, open a bookstore in a remote town. They discover a diary from the previous owner, a writer who had vanished while penning a murder mystery set in this very town.
Tensions rise. They clash over the genre—murder mystery or supernatural horror? Personal strains mount: financial woes, disagreements about starting a family. In a heated argument, the husband strikes his wife.
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"I’ll refine this later," the author thought, saving the file. The timestamp read: 31 January 2025, 1:27 AM.
Fatigue weighed on him as he climbed to his room. The dimly lit space felt bleak: a single cot, a single light switch. He stumbled toward the bed, stepping on something soft—something that felt alarmingly like a body. Shaking off the thought as sleep-deprived hallucination, he collapsed into bed.
Morning light revealed the horrifying truth: a dead woman lay beside him, her head gashed, her skin cold. He recoiled in panic. The room had reverted to its original state, as if it belonged to the missing owner.
He sprinted downstairs. His laptop, which he distinctly remembered shutting off, was open. The desktop background had changed to a photo: him, smiling, alongside the dead woman.
Heart racing, he opened the manuscript.
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UNTITLED MANUSCRIPT – Last saved 31 January 2025, 1:27 AM
"I killed my wife last night. I promised to love her in sickness and health. All she wanted was to have a child, but I begged her to wait until the book was finished. She refused. Things escalated. I struck her with the snake plant pot… and I couldn't stop. Again, again, again."
Terrified, the author dashed back upstairs. The body was gone. The blood, vanished. Maybe it had all been a dream.
But as he turned to leave, a photograph caught his eye. A couple stood in the picture, the woman holding a snake plant pot—the same pot he'd found in his hand. Her eyes seemed to follow him.
Back at the laptop, the file had updated again. The writing continued without him:
"We had invested everything into this home. Stories of black magic surrounded it, tales of sacrifices and dark rituals. Still, it offered the seclusion we craved for our horror manuscript. My wife insisted on brightening the house, and we bought the snake plant. If only I had remembered her smile that day…"
Chilled to the bone, the author re-examined the portrait upstairs. Blood now smeared the image. The woman's eyes, once closed, opened suddenly. She smiled darkly—and lunged from the frame.
Cold hands throttled his throat. Desperate, he grabbed the nearest object and swung. Again, again, again. The figure dissolved, but not the blood. Not the terror. In his trembling hand, he recognized the snake plant pot.
He screamed until his lungs gave out. Alone in the suffocating darkness, the house seemed to scream back at him. Was he trapped in a nightmare, or reliving the horrors of the previous occupant?
Rummaging through his pockets, he found his lighter. The flame cast flickering shadows around the room. His instincts screamed at him to flee, but curiosity anchored him. He approached the portrait once more.
The blood-smeared image showed the same woman—but to his horror, his own face was now superimposed on the man beside her.
The lighter slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor, snuffing out. Too terrified to retrieve it, he fled the residence and took refuge in the basement.
His laptop had powered on again.
But this time, the file showed a modified date of 2018 — exactly seven years earlier, when the original occupant vanished. Stranger still, the file size had ballooned unnaturally. His confusion deepened: he had purchased this laptop only recently and had never transferred old files.
He opened the file, hoping for clarity.
The opening passage read: "The author returned to his hometown, not to seek inspiration, but to confront a story that had already begun without him..."
The laptop blinked: Low battery. But he ignored it and kept reading.
"Rumors had swirled back home. Some said the bookstore owner simply grew tired of the altitude and chill. Others whispered darker things. For the author, it was an irresistible puzzle..."
Before he could read further, the laptop powered down. In the black screen, he saw his reflection.
No.
Standing behind him, the poltergeist grinned wickedly, holding the snake plant pot. Without hesitation, it brought the pot crashing down onto his head.
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Seven years later...
A video blogger panned his camera across the basement. "Friends, the tension here is unbelievable. I absolutely believe something happened to the writer in this basement. I've just found his old laptop. Let’s see if it still works."
The laptop booted without prompt. A video file opened automatically.
"Untitled Video," the blogger read aloud.
Unaware of the looming danger, the blogger’s face now featured in the portrait which reappeared in the residence — the snake plant replaced by the flickering lighter in his hand. The story has found its new scribe...
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